


Sporking

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [8]
Category: Celebrities & Real People - Fandom, Johnny Weir - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, real person fanfiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 06:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17699765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: Bedtime with my just friends spooner





	Sporking

I’m warm and cozy in bed, naked and soft as a poached egg. The covers are up to my neck against the winter cold and darkness, and Bob Ross’s gentle brushes are blending the sounds of colour into ASMR magic. Lying on my left side, I feel myself about to slip into that amniotic bath of light sleep when the gravitational pull of the bed shifts behind me and a slender arm drapes over my middle. 

“Does he always tuck you in at night?” Johnny whispers, resting the side of his face against mine. 

I nod once and tuck his hand under my chin. “Hmm-mm.”

He lets out a tiny laugh and snuggles his hips closer to my bum under the covers. He is still wearing briefs and one of those tank tops made of something so thin it looks more like a white paper napkin sitting in a puddle of canola oil than actual fabric. He’s running almost uncomfortably hot; a human radiator set to 29 degrees... Celsius. Perfection is also the same level of boiler heat, no matter what season, and I feel my heart ache in his absence.

“Turn over and let me spoon you,” I say, my eyelids getting heavier every second.

He moans a little. “But I am bigger than you. I am the soup spoon and you’re the teaspoon.”

“Not by much. Just flip.”

He deftly tosses himself over as if he’s doing a horizontal single axel and assumes a fetal position. I languorously shift sides and cuddle up behind him, allowing him to pull my lazy arm to his chest. I snuggle as tightly against his back as my breasts let me and he sighs.

“I’m more used to hard pecs rubbing against me.”

“Pfft, well tough noogies,” I say across his bare shoulder as the strap of his tank slips off. “I’m more used to getting sporked.”

His deep chest giggle vibrates into me. “What is sporking, if I may so boldly inquire?”

“You’re cheeky enough to guess.”

“If it involves my manhood, I ought to know.”

I smile and shut my eyes as I slowly slide my hand down his side to pat his hip. “I’m not titillating enough for you to spork me.”

“Oh, you’re titillating enough, sweetheart, just not male enough.”

“Just friends spooning will have to do, then,” I say, running a hand over his fluff of hair.

“Can I still just friends kiss you?”

“Of course. Can I still just friends pat your bum?”

“Be my guest!” he says. “Can I still just friends help you get dressed?”

“I won’t stop you, if we can still just friends hook elbows as we walk down the street.”

“Please do, dear. Please do.”

We lie in near silence in the dark, Bob’s brushes and pillow talk voice seeping into our ears and leading us toward unconsciousness. For about 30 seconds, we’re still, but at the same moment, we both flip onto our other sides.

“I like this better,” he says, grabbing my hand and interlocking his fingers with mine.

I nestle my bum against his thighs and appreciate their firmness and the man-hairiness. “You are the bigger spoon after all.”

“And you are my teaspoon. Sweet tea. The sweetest.”

I turn my head toward my right shoulder and pucker my lips. He reaches over and kisses the edge of my mouth the way my bird Ben likes to do. “Good night, you.”

“Sweet tea dreams.”


End file.
